


Texts

by SaraStarchild



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John Watson Misses Sherlock Holmes, M/M, One Shot, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:08:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25094362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraStarchild/pseuds/SaraStarchild
Summary: After Sherlock's fall, John is alone in the world without him. He only knows of one way to cope: sending texts to his dead best friend. (Written in June of 2012, nearly two years before series 3 came out)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 29





	Texts

Sometimes I texted him. Wasn’t too often, and even so it helped somehow, even if it was a little bit. I felt like Irene Adler, texting someone and getting no response.

**There’s been a murder in Brixton – according to the reports, I think you’d like it. – JW**

After everything, his phone was never recovered. I saw him toss it on the roof, but the police just thought I was imagining things in my state. I couldn’t return to the flat, but everyone I had met tried to keep on touch as much as they could.

**Anderson just tried visiting. He’s acting like he’s sorry about… You’d see it right through it. Don’t worry. I do too. – JW**

Mrs. Hudson visited the most out of everyone. Sometimes she brought him up, but mostly we just talked about our lives before; her husband (or lack thereof), my days in military training. I never talked about the days on the actual battle field, though. There were only two people I could talk about that with, and one of them was my therapist.

**I should’ve never gotten you into crap telly. – JW**

I had started to see my therapist more frequently than even before I got home from Afghanistan. Sometimes I thought she was trying to keep me from killing myself over all this. But I couldn’t do that – I felt like I owed it to Sherlock in some way to not take the easy way out.

**Mycroft seems to have finally lost some weight. Remember when we were in Buckingham Palace and you called him the Queen? - JW**

Since I met him, the nights of waking up with the sounds of gunshots and explosions ringing in my ears were few and far between. Now almost every night I woke up gasping, sometimes yelling out his name as I relived the moment again inside my head. There were no more explosions.

**Damn my leg. – JW**

In the way that I became his disembodied skull, Sherlock became my cane. He talked to me and was glad I responded, and he never left my side. I know the pain in my leg was psychological, but it felt real.

**Thought I saw you today. It was weird. – JW**

Moriarty somehow got away – no one has heard from him since everything happened. I looked up Richard Brook on the internet and it seemed like he had everything set. A lot of message boards and blogs mentioned “that psychopathic detective and his mentally insane boyfriend” who thought that their dear Richard was Jim Moriarty. These comments and entries always set a wave of rage and panic through my system. I’ve only had to replace my computer once, fortunately. My blog remains dormant. Sometimes – on my worse days – I have my doubts about him. But even on those days, if anyone said anything bad about him I was the first and last to come to his defense.

**I miss you. I love you and I hate you and I want you to come back right now. God, just. Why did you have to fall? You were so great – you ARE so great. Please, Sherlock. Don’t be dead. – JW**

Every now and again, I think of moving, but some imaginary force kept me in London. I passed the hospital from time to time. Sometimes I think about going up on the roof and standing where he stood before. If I told Ella this, she’d probably make us meet three times a week. I find myself passing 221B Baker Street more often, though. Every time I do, I think about going in, saying hi to Mrs. Hudson, and requesting to see the flat that started it all. But I couldn’t – I didn’t know what kind of emotions being in that flat would stir up. I tried to keep crying to be a strict at-home-and-alone activity. Sometimes I would simply stand outside, looking up at the flat’s windows, wondering if there was a new tenant, and what they thought about the bullet holes…

**I love you, John, and I’m sorry. Please come up here. – SH**


End file.
